The smell of crushed limestone and diesel

The smell of crushed limestone and diesel

settles in the back of my throat like a secret.

At pump four, a red sedan idles,

its bumper hanging by a prayer and a zip-tie.

There’s a sticker for a team that hasn't won

in twenty years, peeling at the corners.

I look at the dust on my own dashboard,

a fine, gray silt that has traveled across three states

just to remind me of the way the horizon

used to end at the grain elevator,

and how every road eventually turned

into a driveway where someone was waiting to be disappointed.